“Wait,” he called, and she prayed for a reprieve.
“I haven’t finished the introductions,” he said.
“Bother, that,” his sister cried. “I’m Anne. And that, of course, is my husband, Moredon. Nigel Roydon, Earl of Moredon. And lounging on the chaise is Sophia, Lady Yardley—assuming you two have not yet met. You were occupied when we arrived—”
Hiding
, thought Maryanne guiltily as she followed beautiful Lady Moredon to the settee.
Her ladyship promptly poured tea as Maryanne peeped over the curving back of the chair. Dash had headed to the brandy decanter, and Moredon was joining him. Lady Sophia stretched like a cat on the chaise and purred a request for sherry.
“Now,” Lady Moredon said softly, “I know you are expecting—so I know Dash had misbehaved, which he does, though he is decidedly honorable and kind.”
“Oh, I—”
“And he smiles at you in that way.”
“That way?”
“That besotted way. I can see it, of course. He tells me Lady Trent introduced you. Marcus and Dash are good friends—friends since childhood—and Marcus has always been so very good for my brother. Kept him out of trouble.”
Out of trouble?
“Where are you from? I know you met in London.”
“Maidenswode.” Maryanne had spoken by rote, her hands tucked between her knees. She quickly gave a description of the village, her heart hammering in her ear. What if Lady Moredon asked about her parents—had Dash told her the lie, or had he given his sister the truth?
“I do hope we haven’t imposed by coming down so quickly—I wanted so much to meet you. And I shan’t be surprised if I don’t see you very often. I’m sure Dash will wish to monopolize you.” The green eyes twinkled. Her voice lowered to a melodic tinkle. “When are you due?”
Maryanne gulped. She didn’t want to speak about the baby—it would be unkind in front of Lady Moredon, who had lost hers. But she couldn’t ignore the question. “I…I think June.”
“Lovely. Before the weather becomes so unbearably hot. London or here for your confinement, do you think?”
“I…I don’t know.” She felt swept on a wave by Lady Moredon’s voluble conversation. She took the offered cup of tea, thankful to have a reason not to speak. She sipped.
“And we must drag out the garlands tomorrow and the other ornamentation for Christmas!” Lady Moredon exclaimed. “I’m sure it’s all in fine order—Mrs. Long is most particular. Though she can be a bit of an ogre. I remember hiding from her as a child.”
Maryanne tried to swallow the hot tea.
“I didn’t live here all my life, of course,” Lady Moredon continued. “Once Mother and Father were gone, I lived with Sophia. She felt I needed a woman’s influence and wished to ensure I received a proper education—one beyond striking poses in my looking glass.” She threw a fond glance to Lady Yardley. Maryanne glanced over the chaise and choked on her tea. Dash sat on the end of the chaise beside her ladyship’s shapely legs, outlined by the white skirt.
Anne cheerfully continued, “I remember, when I was just a child, the queen had a tree brought in for Christmas and hung ornaments on it—balls of glass and gold bells and such. It was apparently quite lovely. Do you think we should try something like that?”
“Er—yes. It would be lovely.”
A shadow passed over Maryanne, and she looked up, hoping for Dash. Instead, Lady Yardley murmured a greeting and settled on the wing chair opposite with her sherry. Dressed in a complex arrangement of curls, her silver-blond hair sparkled beneath the candlelight. “I have met your sister, Venetia, Lady Trent.”
At an orgy, Maryanne remembered. She felt paralyzed again. “Y—yes,” she muttered.
“A very resourceful and talented woman—the perfect mate for Marcus Wyndham.” Lady Yardley tapped her finger to her cheek. Full, rouged lips curved into a smile. “How surprising to see that Dash so unerringly found the perfect bride.”
“Well, he—I mean, I—thank you.” But Maryanne impulsively leaned forward. “But I’m not, am I? Not the perfect bride for him. He’s…” She looked helplessly at Anne. She couldn’t say “a rake” in front of his sister.
“He is worldly and experienced, but that only made him more naive about things of import,” declared Sophia. “He enjoyed pretending to be dark and depraved, posturing as men are wont to do.”
Anne giggled and then sipped her tea. His sister didn’t mind hearing the word
depraved
in connection with her brother?
“He needs a woman who finds delight in everyday things.”
Untutored and simple
, Maryanne thought.
That is what she really means
. “He…he seems troubled,” she ventured. “Perhaps by something that happened in London…?”
She was taking a terrible risk, and she felt fear and exhilaration.
Lady Yardley desperately looked toward the men. “Ah, here he comes now. And the way his eye is gleaming, I think he intends to whisk you away.” She waved to Dash, who was prowling their way. “You two are newly married—you’ve entertained us long enough,” she called to him. “Dear Maryanne is concerned about your troubles in London: I’m sure you would rather discuss those in private. Have you shown her the intriguing collection in your study, Lancelot?”
The use of his middle name again startled Maryanne. But Dash bowed. “Not yet. Are you asking me to do so now?”
“It’s rather important, is it not, that you share the events of London?”
It occurred to her then that no one had spoken of Dash being shot at. Or of the carriage accident. Though both would be tender subjects for Lady Moredon.
As she left the room at Dash’s side, Maryanne realized that Lady Moredon’s happy chatter covered worries. She’d known women in Maidenswode to do that—deny the troubles in their life by busying themselves in the mundane.
Was it just the loss of her child? Or something connected to Dash?
“What is the intriguing collection you keep in here?” Maryanne asked, to set aside nerves as she stepped into Dash’s study.
She caught her breath. The room was decorated entirely in black—a black silk-covered daybed stood in the corner by the fire, black silk pillows heaped upon it. The furnishings were black and polished to a gleam. And black drapes shrouded the windows.
She shivered, despite the warmth of the room.
“Several…collections of erotic art and erotic writings.” He sat on the edge of desk, his long legs stretched in front of him. Since he wore all black again, he looked like Lucifer.
“Come here,” he said.
Once she was close enough, he clasped her hands and drew her to him. Leaning forward, he kissed her. She tasted the brandy on this tongue.
“Do you trust me?” he murmured against her lips.
“Of course. I belong to you now, don’t I?”
Standing, he pulled out a black leather chair and helped her stand up on the seat. Her bottom was at the height of his shoulders. Twisting around, she saw his mouth open—he hoisted her skirts and planted a hungry kiss on the cheek of her derriere. And slapped her other cheek.
She could see her reflection in the tall window—errant curls falling down about her face, curling around her dress, and her skirts pushed up once more.
Heavens, they were illuminated.
“Dash—someone might see through the window.”
But he laughed and showered hot kisses over her bottom.
He went to orgies. He must be accustomed to people watching.
In the stories she had edited, men did grow aroused by watching other men and women have relations. Women, it seemed, enjoyed it, too.
He turned her with his hands on her hips and pulled her forward. His mouth closed over her clit.
Pleasure swamped her. She closed her eyes and then remembered she was standing on a chair.
His hands held her securely. He licked her, lavishly swirling his tongue around her clit. It felt good. Lovely. Wonderful. But she couldn’t come. She knew the sensation of orgasm, and it wasn’t building.
Why? What was wrong?
She closed her eyes and moaned. And moaned again. She mimicked the rising sounds of pleasure she made when she was striving for orgasm. The cries. The gasps of his name. She rocked hard against him, arched up on her toes, and then bumped her cunny against his mouth, the way she would if she’d reached her pleasure.
She was tired. And she couldn’t concentrate. And he’d want to give her pleasure—he might think her less pleasing if she didn’t come.
She cried out and writhed around in his embrace, acting out an intense climax. As she pulled back, he gave a pleased smile, very contented with himself.
“Now, love. Let me tell you about what happened in London.”
“I
swear to you, before I tell you this, that I had nothing to do with it.” Dash knew he had to open with the truth, and he watched Maryanne’s eyes widen and her lips part. But she said nothing.
He had insisted she sit by the fire; he’d given her a snifter of brandy, and her fingers clung around the curved glass. A full, generous, rounded shape, like her plump breasts….
Damn. He moved to the warm fire, rested his elbow on the mantel. “The day I met you on the scavenger hunt…that day, Sir William, the magistrate of Bow Street, found me in my club to tell me that several witnesses saw me kidnap a woman from Vauxhall.”
Her eyes grew even larger, dark circles against her ivory skin, but she just stared at him, speechless. “The woman was Lady Farthingale, and she was a participant in the hunt. She was also the mistress of Lord Hadrian, and he went immediately to Bow Street—”
Maryanne’s brandy snifter was sliding from her fingers. Lunging forward, Dash caught it before she dropped it and set it on the octagonal table beside her. He lowered onto his knees before her. Loose wisps of her hair, almost gold in the firelight, brushed her lips.
“Yes, there were witnesses, love, but they were paid to lie. I didn’t do it. You must believe that. I would never kidnap a woman. I would never hurt any…never a woman.”
“But why you?” she choked out. “Why would anyone wish to blame you?”
“I don’t know, love, but it gets worse.” He felt his mouth twist into a rueful grimace, and he held the brandy to her lips.
Obediently she sipped. Then coughed.
“There was another woman who disappeared from the scavenger hunt, and again there were witnesses who saw me take her into a carriage. Two courtesans and two gentlemen were the witnesses that time. And again, I vow to you, Maryanne, that I did not do it.”
Hades, he could read nothing from her eyes. It was as if she were reading a book, not listening to a protestation of innocence from her husband. “That woman was Eliza Charmody, an actress.”
“Had you ever…” She let her words die away.
“Did I have an affair with her? No.”
“Are you certain?”
Christ Jesus, how bad did she think he was?
He paused. There were times at orgies, when he’d been drunk, that he’d engaged with many sexual partners but couldn’t remember any of them. Still, that wasn’t an affair—he’d never been the woman’s protector. “Yes, I’m certain,” he repeated. “I hate to have to tell you this, Maryanne.” He cradled her hands in his. Hers were cold.
Was she staring so evenly at him because she already knew this? Was she involved? He’d expected her to burst into tears. Or back away from him in fear. Not to sit calmly, weighing his words.
“Eliza Charmody was murdered,” he finished. “And her body left in Hyde Park on the night you shared my bed.”
“But, then, it couldn’t have been you. You were with me.”
“What time did you leave me that morning, love?”
She frowned, forehead wrinkling. “Almost half past six. Just a couple minutes before.”
He let out a sharp breath. Maryanne gave him an alibi, but he couldn’t use it. Not without tossing them both into scandal.
“Miss Charmody was strangled with a black cravat. It was not mine, however.”
Her gaze flicked to the black cravat he wore. Then she stood so quickly he almost toppled backward. Abruptly she marched away from him, leaving him with his hand splayed on the warm, carved stone of the fireplace.
She doesn’t believe you. She’s heard the stories of you tying up women, spanking them. She thinks you’re a murderer.
He
was
a bloody murderer.
He pushed himself up to his feet as she reached the desk. She plucked his pen from the ink fountain. “But you didn’t kill her, obviously, and someone did. Do you know who?”
She caressed the length of the pen with her fingertips—he remembered Marcus telling him he could get hard just watching Venetia put the end of a paintbrush handle to her lips.
Dash understood. His cock pulsed as Maryanne fondled the pen.
“No, I don’t know who.”
“But you must suspect someone. It must be the same person who shot at you!” Droplets of ink sprayed his neat blotter as she gestured with her hand.
“Yes. It’s possible.”
“So it must be Craven. Or his partner.” She shuddered. “Yes, I could imagine Lord Craven doing such a horrid thing.”
“It’s not as simple as that, love.”
“Then tell me!” She turned on him, her curls in disarray, frothing around her pale face. “I’m your wife. Tell me!”
Dash knew he couldn’t. If she was involved, he would be revealing his hand to her—she would know exactly what he knew and could use it against him.
If she was innocent…she didn’t need to know. He would protect her.
The dinner gong sounded, saving him. But she must have guessed his intent. “It’s only the first. You have time to talk to me.”
“It only puts you in danger to know, love. It’s time for dinner. Are you able to go down?”
Maryanne nodded, but she hastened over to the mirror to fix her hair. Dash linked her arm in his. “I believe you,” she told him.
And at dinner, Maryanne felt as if she were acting in a play. The five of them sat at the table—herself, Dash, Lord and Lady Moredon, and Lady Yardley. Talk was of humorous gossip and of the past. Green eyes twinkling, Lady Moredon had shared indiscreet stories of Dash—the many times he’d fallen from a tree while sneaking out of the house, the maids who had swooned every time he smiled their way.
But Lady Yardley’s words hammered in Maryanne’s thoughts the entire time.
He will not turn a blind eye if you shoot a relative.
She couldn’t think. Couldn’t follow the lighthearted conversations surrounding her. The words kept distracting her. She’d spilled soup, hit her wineglass with her wrist, and saved it, with her heart in her throat.
Who exactly did Dash suspect of kidnapping women, of shooting at him? Why would he not tell her?
Under lowered lashes, she glanced to the Earl of Moredon. With sandy hair, freckles, and bright blue eyes, he held boyish charm. He looked the least likely man to murder women or shoot at his brother-in-law. But wasn’t that what held her glued to the pages of her horrid novels—the twists and turns, the surprise at the end?
Not Anne. Maryanne jerked up her head to watch Anne teasingly sparring with Dash. She could not believe Anne wished her brother ill.
After dinner, she yearned to snare Dash alone—demand that he tell her—but she had no chance. The five of them gathered in the music room. Anne played pianoforte. Lady Yardley’s fingers plucked heavenly melodies from the harp strings.
They would expect her to play. And she’d never been accomplished at music. Maryanne closed her eyes….
“You should go to bed, sleepy one,” Dash murmured by her ear.
Her heart soared, her nipples tightened, her cunny throbbed—her entire body willed him to join her. But her husband escorted her to her bedroom, brushed a kiss to her fingertips, and returned to his guests.
Maryanne flopped onto her bed. Damn. She was…aroused. Shamefully so.
She should be worrying about her husband’s life, not yearning to ride him until he roared.
Maryanne jerked up. Dash was downstairs. Did she dare sneak into his room, search for any notes or letters he might have written about his suspicions? She wanted to know exactly who he suspected. She needed to know.
She shook her head. No! It was sinful enough that she’d overheard his conversation with Lady Yardley. She would not rifle through his things. Instead she would force herself to stay awake and go to his room when he retired, and she would demand to know the truth.
Fingers tweaked her nipple beneath her nightgown, drawing on it until it stood erect. Pleasure rushed through her. Something hot and hard pressed against her bottom. The skirt of her nightdress was pulled up. A large hand parted her thighs and unerringly found her tingling clit—
Maryanne jerked awake.
“Sorry, love,” Dash whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
So aroused she could barely speak, she rolled onto her back. Her cunny felt like a drawn bow—one stroke of his cock would fire her trigger.
“I want you.” She couldn’t see him against the velvet black darkness, but she sensed him. Smelled him.
His hand cupped her breast, and she spread her legs wide.
“I’ve hungered for this all night,” he whispered.
A rap sounded at the door. “My lord? My lady?”
Dash hung his head—she felt the brush of his silky hair against her cheek and lips. “Damn and blast,” he muttered. “Why are we being interrupted at midnight?”
The bed creaked as he shifted, and she wanted to scream as his heat pulled away. Instead she drew up the covers and sat up to strike a light. Dash opened the door to the hallway, and the footman’s candle threw light on him. Wall sconces still burned in the hall, and she blinked as light spilled in. “Yes?” Dash glowered.
“L—Lady Evershire,” the footman stammered. “And Mr. Jack Tate, my lord. They’ve made it through the storm, my lord, and have just arrived.”
“Jack Tate?” Dash repeated.
“Yes, my lord.” The footman explained more, but kept his voice low, and Maryanne could not hear.
Dash gave curt directions—to prepare rooms, to ensure a dinner was laid out, to have servants ensure the guests were changed, refreshed, and then brought to the drawing room. Maryanne swung her legs out of bed as the footman left.
“No need for you to come down, love,” Dash said. “Lady Evershire is Moredon’s sister. I was not expecting her.”
“And Jack Tate?” Though she knew who he was. She’d overheard Dash tell Lady Yardley. Guiltily she murmured, “The name is familiar, but I can’t place it.”
“Tate owns several London hells. And he owes me twenty thousand pounds. I can assure you he wasn’t expected either.” Dash’s mouth flattened into a grim line. His eyes sparkled, as hard as jet.
“What is it?” she gasped. But she understood. “Twenty thousand. That’s enough to kill for, isn’t it? He must be unsavory, to own gambling dens. Do you think he is the one who shot at you?”
Dash raked back his hair. “Damned brazen to do it and then show up as a stranded traveler, but possible.”
“You can’t let him stay.”
“The storm is a blizzard now, he has no mount, and I’m not certain I can send him out to die.”
“N—no.”
“Not when I have no evidence he is definitely the blackguard.”
She nodded. Honor again. A gentleman’s honor. “But…but what of Lady Evershire?”
“She rescued Tate on the way, it appears.”
“She has no reason to kill you?”
“Actually she has a very good one. A woman scorned and all that.” Then he laughed, his deep, masculine laugh that normally aroused her every nerve. But she only felt cold, uncertain.
“But, no, I don’t believe Harriet shot at me.” A fond smile touched his lips. “Go back to bed, sweeting. I’ll dress and go downstairs.”
To a man who might have shot at him? “Wait!” she cried, and she launched onto her feet, dragging the sheets with her.
Framed in the doorway that connected to the parlor, he paused. Turned.
“If Tate wants to hurt you over the money, why don’t you forgive the debt?”
Ruefully he shook his head. “It’s a debt of honor, love. It would dishonor us both to forget it.”
She dropped the edges of the sheets and stepped over them. “Honor is more important than your life?”
His broad shoulders lifted and fell in a casual shrug. “Yes.”
Scrambling, she reached him as he moved to step through the door. Hesitantly she wrapped her fingers around his hand. She drew his palm to her belly, beneath the flowing muslin of her nightdress, and sighed at the warm pressure of his hand against her. Saw the smile come to his lips and his black lashes lower.
“I want to ensure you are here to see your child, Dash. I’m terrified something…” She couldn’t finish, frightened that if she spoke of it, it might become real.
He nuzzled her neck, and her body took fire, her quim becoming juicy and hot. She tipped her head to the side. With his hand on her tummy, his lips on her skin, she gasped at the sizzle that shot from neck to toes.
“You play with sharp blades, don’t you?” he murmured.
“I don’t understand.”
“You know my vulnerabilities. I promise you I’ll take care—for your sake and our child’s.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Welcome Tate and Harriet to my home. Play the generous host.”
She pushed back her hair, left loose, not braided, and in a tangle. “I wish to be with you.”
“You need to sleep, Maryanne. For both your sake and the babe’s.” But he removed his hand from her belly as he repeated the words. “You cannot be with me when I speak with Tate. That’s male domain.”
She rolled her eyes. She couldn’t help it.
He tipped up her chin and brushed a kiss on her nose. “And just so you aren’t surprised, the Duke of Ashton, Sophia’s lover, will be arriving within a few days. As will my family—I’m inviting the lot of them. My uncle, aunt, and my cousin. Along with Marcus, Venetia, and their babe, and your mother and sister, we’ll have a full and cheery house for Christmas. Now you’d best go to bed, angel.”
With his hand splayed on her lower back, he propelled her to her bed. She wanted to protest, but he lifted the sheets off the floor. Lit only by candlelight, his face bore a cool expression that brooked no argument. She climbed up and slipped underneath the covers.
Remarkably her husband tucked her in.
“Sleep well. And don’t worry.”
She nodded but implored, “Please, don’t keep secrets. You didn’t tell me about Tate. Please let me help.”
“I want to keep you safe. Go to bed and I’ll tell you all in the morning.”
She knew she shouldn’t let him escape, but she yawned. She was so tired she felt her lids drift down as he moved away.
Oh, he would try to avoid giving her the truth. She knew that, for she would do it in his shoes. But she would pursue.
Snow piled up against the terrace doors, driven by the wind. Tree boughs, loaded with a fanciful, thick white frosting, hung almost to the drifts. Sunlight turned the view to a sea of glittering white, a vista like a cup of one of Gunter’s ices. Beautiful, but Maryanne felt no delight looking at it.